


As They Lived

by kyaticlikestea



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Why love when the world might be ending? Love will come to no good when there is no France to house it. No; love is a game of the optimists, the folly of the rich, and I am neither. I will not play it."</i> </p><p>Grantaire loves a man who cannot love, and the Revolution marches on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As They Lived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LucentPetrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucentPetrichor/gifts).



> Thank you to the marvelous LucentPetrichor for being my beta!  
> This mostly adheres to the canon of the novel, which is why Marius and Cosette are together throughout the narrative.

The first time it happens, love does not come into it at all. Lust barely makes an entrance. They are arguing, as they are wont to do when Enjolras becomes so enraptured in the cause that he fails to notice that he has been chewing Grantaire’s ear off about France and the Revolution for the past hour, and suddenly they are no longer arguing because Grantaire has dropped his bottle of wine and it has smashed, and Enjolras is pressing the curve of his mouth into Grantaire’s neck. There are no languid kisses – there are none at all, only red marks on their skin - no professions or declarations of intimacy, and Enjolras’ fingers dig deep enough into Grantaire’s hipbones to bruise, blood flowering beneath the surface of his skin, purple fingerprints like flowerbuds, although they will never bloom into anything more beautiful than they already are. They are not drunk, although truthfully – as is their way - Grantaire is closer to being so than Enjolras. Afterwards, they lie silent in Grantaire’s bed and do not touch until morning, when Enjolras leaves and Grantaire is cold and empty.

*

After the fourth time – and the first time that it is not preceded by an argument - it becomes routine. Enjolras will shout and shout until his beautiful voice is hoarse, and when he is sure that they have all listened well enough, he will send them away and he will take Grantaire to his bed. Things change, though; fingers don’t dig as deep and bruises are left more carefully, words are spoken in the afterglow, and although they’re more bitter than sweet nothings, they’re something. Grantaire wonders if they are lovers. That is the word that he chooses to use anyway, because Enjolras sometimes mumbles about the Revolution in his sleep and has sixteen freckles on his lower back and wears red far more often than he should. Grantaire thinks he might have always loved Enjolras, since before he first laid eyes upon him, and although he sometimes finds it difficult to make sense of Enjolras’ ideas of the Revolution, he has not once found it difficult to make sense of love. It will be the death of him, he knows. If the Revolution does not get him first.

*

Paris wears mourning well, Grantaire thinks. She is silhouetted regally in black at this time of night, and the dead and the dying are well remembered.

They are all dying, and that’s the truth of it. The cries of the poor and the bullets of the rich are nothing really but a lullaby, a prequel to a more permanent slumber than Grantaire cares to imagine, but he knows it is approaching. It seems to him that every day the sky is painted darker with clouds, and the faces of passers-by are more worn with weariness, waiting for the inevitable. The time that passes is measured by the thuds of footsteps outside, marching onwards towards something that cannot be avoided.

He shivers. He is not usually one for the maudlin, but when the moon is a slim sliver of silver in an otherwise empty sky, his thoughts cannot help but turn to the melancholy.

Enjolras stirs beside him, and Grantaire looks down at their laced fingers. Enjolras would never align them thus, but somehow, in sleep, their hands moved of their own accord. Still, Grantaire is careful to untangle them, and when Enjolras wakes moments later, there is no trace of it happening but the lingering warmth.

*

Months later, when Grantaire has learnt every curve and contour of Enjolras’ body over again in the same night, he cannot hold it in any longer. Marius has Cosette. They will wed when this is over. They live every moment for the next that they can spend together. Grantaire wants to have Enjolras in that way, and he knows it is selfish, but that has never stopped him before.

His head rests on Enjolras’ shoulder as they pretend to sleep, and he marvels at how well they fit together. What could be wrong about expressing it? He inhales sharply, and when he exhales, the truth comes.

“I love you,” he says, because he does, he does, and Enjolras’ hand stills where it had been sweeping arcs onto Grantaire’s flesh.

“Do not say that.” Enjolras’ voice is quiet but stoic, determined, and Grantaire frowns, feels his heart quicken under Enjolras' fingertips.

“Why not?” he asks, and Enjolras sighs, removing his hand from Grantaire’s skin and leaving him cold. He almost shivers. “I am not ashamed of it. Why should I refrain from saying it? I would shout it if you only asked.”

“I would not ask.” Enjolras’ voice is resolute, and Grantaire feels colder still.

“Then you are the one who is ashamed.”

“That is not true.” Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and Grantaire catches a glimpse of moonlight on the curve of his arm. Enjolras is outlined starkly, for a moment, against the Paris skyline, and it is fitting. They are not alone in this room. Not really. France intrudes, and always will. Grantaire swallows, a sudden bitter taste on his tongue. “It is not shame that stills my tongue,” Enjolras continues. “It is truth. Why love when the world might be ending? Love will come to no good when there is no France to house it. No; love is a game of the optimists, the folly of the rich, and I am neither. I will not play it.”

“Love is not a fiddle to be played,” Grantaire argues, but there is no bite to it. He has never in his life won an argument against Enjolras, who has read every book there is to read on conflict and debate and who has never backed down from a fight while still conscious.

“It sends us on a merry dance, nonetheless,” Enjolras counters. Grantaire swallows.

“It is true that you were always an awful dancer.”

It’s far from what Grantaire wants to say and even further from what he needs to say, but it’s the only thing he can think of saying that might not force Enjolras from his bed. Enjolras smiles, rather sadly, but it’s better than no smile at all, and so Grantaire takes it.

They’re silent for a few minutes, then; Grantaire rests his head back on Enjolras’ chest and presses his temple to Enjolras’ collarbone, and Enjolras’ fingers find their way to Grantaire’s hair and run themselves through it, combing out some of the dark, tangled curls.

“Please do not say it again.”

Enjolras is sincere and slightly stony, but he is beautiful and his voice is thin at the edges, trembling a little in the vast expanse of night that separates them from the rest of France, and so Grantaire inches imperceptibly closer to Enjolras, his warm self filling the spaces between them and the sheets – there should be no space between them, no pockets of air that could be filled with skin and sinew – and allows himself to make false promises.

“Then I will not.”

He does, of course, hours later, when Paris sheds her skin, and his hips are rutting indelicately against Enjolras’, his mouth pressed and gasping against Enjolras’ shoulder, and in between short, sharp breaths, he says it over and over again, mouths silently over and over again into the salty skin between Enjolras’ collarbone and his jaw the same three words, over and over again, _I love you I love you I love you_.

*

It is the third day of June, an uncharacteristically chilly afternoon, and Grantaire has nowhere to go. He has a meeting with Les Amis in less than an hour, and if he goes elsewhere he will likely miss it. He will sit here, then. The square is relatively quiet for early afternoon, with a few beggars here and there, and about as many rich men, clad in as much finery as Grantaire has ever owned, trying desperately to ignore them as they go about their business. He casts his eye around at the homeless. They all wear the uniform of poverty, rags and stitches, and Grantaire feels oddly aware that his own clothes are practically king’s robes compared to them. Perhaps they look at him and see him to be no different to the rich men who pass them by each day. It is true that, like them, Grantaire gives them no money. He likes to think that he would, had he more than three coins in his back pocket.

His eye falls on one young woman sitting on the steps of a house at the other side of the square, a faded scarlet shawl wrapped around her shoulders to try and protect her from the chill, and he is surprised when he realises that it is Éponine. He does not know Éponine well. What he knows of her is that she is as penniless as the rest of the poor, perhaps more so, and that she is as partial to a bottle of wine as he is. He knows that she is older than her years, and that her future is written across her face.

He gets to his feet and crosses the square, aware that the eyes of the beggars are all on him. Éponine notices him and smiles, a crooked little thing that is barely there at all, and he sits next to her.

“Grantaire,” she greets him. “Have you news for me?”

He scoffs, mock offended. This is their dynamic; they are friends, with no hope of becoming more, but such flirtation amuses them both.

“Must I have an ulterior motive to enjoy your company?” he asks, and her smile twists into something more wry.

“Most do,” she says. He looks at her, watches her compose her emotions, and notices her shiver. He sighs.

“Take this,” he says, slipping out of his old brown coat. It is rather threadbare in places, but it has proven faithful in even the coldest Paris winters, and he is slightly remiss to remove it. Éponine shakes her head.

“You will regret it,” she says. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“You have greater need of it than I,” he insists, and hands it to her.

“I cannot - ”

“You can return it to me at your earliest convenience,” he says, interrupting her protests. She studies him for a few moments before accepting the coat and putting it on, huddling into it for greater warmth. She wets her lips to speak.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. He grins at her and she rests her head on his shoulder. He feels inexplicably fond of her, although he is unsure as to why. They are not great friends, not really, and he has not seen her in weeks.

“Have you word of Marius?” she asks him suddenly, and he frowns.

“Nothing of importance,” he answers. “Although I am to see him later. Why?”

She sits up straight and looks him in the eye.

“You will see him this evening?” she asks. He shakes his head.

“This afternoon,” he corrects. “Why do you ask?”

She breaks eye contact with him like that, studying a small black stain on the sleeve of Grantaire’s coat. It is ash, he knows, from a coal fire in December. He had lit it in the corner of the room and watched it burn, too distracted to bask in the warmth it offered. Éponine scratches at the mark it left behind.

“I have no particular motivation,” she replies eventually. “Merely enquiring after a friend.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the worry that has made itself known across her brow or the slight downwards tilt to her mouth, but he suddenly sees rather more of himself in her than he had before. He reaches out for her hand and holds it, and she looks at him in surprise.

“Marius is a fool,” he tells her, and she blushes furiously, stealing back her hand.

“You speak without thinking,” she mutters. “You talk as though I have other intentions when I meant no such thing.”

He wants to tell her that he understands, that he knows how it feels to love someone who cannot return it, but he cannot say it without telling her whom he loves, and so he merely scratches the back of his head and shrugs again.

“I have loved without being loved in return,” he says carefully, and she eyes him suspiciously. “Although the object of my affections did not love another; rather, he loved nothing at all, save perhaps for ideas and dreams.”

“I do not - ”

“I know, Éponine. I know that you do not love him, because he is undeserving of your love. He is blind and he thinks of nothing but himself and Cosette, and his hair is rather too scruffy. You could not love him.”

Enjolras thinks only of France and the Revolution and forgets to eat for days at a time when he can afford to and he has a scar on his right hand from a bar-fight six years ago. Éponine smiles wanly.

“I could not,” she says.

They sit in silence, her head resting once more on his shoulder, until he has to leave. When he sees Marius, he thinks of poor Éponine, and he wonders if Marius knows that he has her heart.

*

It is early afternoon, and they have not left the confines of Enjolras’ room save to eat. These are the days that Grantaire likes best. They are days to be lived rather than spent, days where hours are not hours at all, but a series of moments that can be charted by fingernails on skin and the healing of old bruises as new ones are sucked on top of the temporary scars they leave.

Grantaire lies languidly along the bed – he has claimed this side of it as his own, although he has made certain not to tell Enjolras so – and Enjolras, as gloriously naked as Grantaire himself, sits cross-legged at the end of it, making notes on some scraps of paper. His brow is lined with thought and his lips are slightly raw at the edges, chewed in worry, and Grantaire wonders how many people are aware that Enjolras _does_ worry. He doubts it is a privilege bestowed easily. There are dark shadows under Enjolras’ eyes, which suggest a lack of sleep – a fact that Grantaire cannot help but feel guiltily and delightfully responsible for – and his neck and the top of his thighs are marked with dark bruises, shades of purple that, if Grantaire were to kiss, were he only allowed, would fit the shape of his lips perfectly.

If Grantaire were to shift ever so slightly, he could press his toes to the soft, nude flesh of Enjolras’ thigh, but he does not dare to move. Instead, he speaks, as he tends to do when choices are not so freely made.

“Did you know that, historically speaking, a moment is longer than a minute?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow above the pamphlet he’s drafting, but doesn’t say anything. Grantaire stretches his arms above his head, aware that this has the effect of lengthening the pale expanse of his body in a way that many before him have considered appealing. “A minute, as I am sure you are aware, comprises of sixty seconds. A moment, however, consists of ninety. And yet, despite this clear evidence to the contrary, many people describe occurrences as lasting ‘mere moments’, which implies them to last for rather less time than they truly did. Do you see?”

Enjolras sighs.

“I see.”

Grantaire decides then that there are some risks that must be taken, damn the consequences; in one move that he hopes is rather more alluring than clumsy, he crosses the bed and kneels opposite Enjolras, who swallows hard, much to Grantaire’s delight, and lowers the pamphlet slightly.

“I am very busy, you know,” he says, and Grantaire grins.

“It will only take a moment,” he counters, and he does not miss the small upwards tilt on Enjolras’ lips before his hands are on Grantaire’s hipbones and he is shoved rather violently back down onto the bed, the weight of Enjolras keeping him there and safe, and when they are a tangle of limbs and Enjolras is pushed firm into him – into his body and into something deeper than that, and all the corners of his mind are Enjolras – he focuses not on the fact that there might be three days left or six, nor the beat of Enjolras’ heart which aligns almost with Grantaire’s own in the heat of the moment, but on the ragged air between them and the rolling of their hips, because Enjolras does not want him to think of anything else, not of the taste of the pulse point on Enjolras’ wrists or the way their bodies slot lazily together after in slumber, but of this, only this, and if Grantaire cries out Enjolras’ name with the arch of his back and the white hot curl of joy at the pit of his stomach – well. Grantaire can lie and say that Enjolras heard what he did not want to hear.

*

They gather around the table in solemn silence, all of them, faces drawn and carefully blank. Enjolras paces, darkly brooding instead of outwardly furious, and Grantaire thinks that the alternative is far preferable to this. Marius rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, obviously as stressed as Enjolras but less restricted by the boundaries of rage. Grantaire wonders what it says about men that some can hide so easily and some live their lives in the open.

“I love her, Enjolras,” Marius says, words defiant and biting. Grantaire is sure that he could see teeth marks on Enjolras’ skin if he only looked hard enough. Enjolras whirls around and slams his hands flat on the table, hard enough that Grantaire’s wine bottle falls, spins and smashes on the floor. No-one pays it any attention. Even Grantaire is too focused on the flush of Enjolras’ cheeks to pay it much heed.

“You would leave us for her?” Enjolras accuses, eyes dancing with rage, and Marius raises his hands in defiance.

“I cannot leave her now!” he responds.

Enjolras fixes Marius with an angry glare, and heat pools in Grantaire’s stomach, although whether it is from fear or something else entirely, he cannot be sure.

“You think you are the only one among us who has ever loved?” Enjolras cries, and Grantaire stares at the puddle of wine that is seeping vermillion into the groaning cracks in the floorboards. He will not allow the truth to show on his face. It is too fragile to be seen by the others.

Enjolras rolls his weight forward, his shoulders slumping slightly, and breaks eye contact with Marius. “You believe yourself to be the only one here who has had to forsake such things for our cause?” he continues, and at the utterly defeated tone to his voice, Grantaire looks up sharply. Enjolras leans forward, head bowed, curls tumbling, and Grantaire cannot help but be reminded of greater martyrs before him. “No, Marius. You are not the only man here who has made such sacrifices.”

Marius’s gaze is still firmly focused on Enjolras, and he shakes his head.

“I will not abandon her,” he repeats, firmly. “That you abandoned love is a shame and a pity, but I will not do the same.”

Enjolras looks up at this, and the look he shares with Marius is at once confused and betrayed. Grantaire hunches his shoulders, prepared for the tirade of rage and anger that will surely follow, but no such thing happens. Enjolras simply stares at Marius, his expression hurt, and Combeferre sighs next to Grantaire.

Joly gets to his feet and clasps his hand to Marius’s shoulder.

“Go to Cosette,” he says. “Think on it a little more.”

Eyeing Enjolras with suspicion, Marius nods curtly before leaving, and Combeferre sighs.

“The lad intends to marry, Enjolras,” he says.

Enjolras looks down again. Grantaire misses the sight of his eyes already.

“And I intend to do something of far greater importance,” Enjolras returns, and with that, he leaves. Grantaire watches him go, thoughtful.

Has Enjolras truly loved in the past? Grantaire cannot imagine him ever having done so, cannot believe he was ever unhurried enough to allow himself to be consumed by such things, but perhaps Enjolras has surprised him yet.

But there is no time to think. That duty has never fallen to him, and he sees no reason for it to do so now.

*

In the wake of the argument with Marius, Enjolras is quiet that evening. He does not argue when Grantaire writes words of affection on his skin with his fingertip, and is more amenable to idle chatter than usual.

Grantaire looks at him, at the worry lines on his brow, and wishes he were allowed to kiss them away.

“Why do you do this?” he finds himself asking, and the worry turns to bemusement as Enjolras looks at him.

“‘This’?” he queries, and Grantaire shrugs.

“All of it,” he says. _The Revolution. Breathing. Sleeping with me. All of it._

Enjolras looks away and into the darkness. Grantaire does not expect a response, but Enjolras speaks.

“I have always thought that humans have a need to become something greater than they are,” he answers. “I suppose that in connecting with another person... well.”

“We are stronger in numbers.”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“We feel their greatness,” he corrects, and it makes something in Grantaire swell that perhaps – just perhaps – Enjolras sees something great in him. It is the closest thing to affection that Enjolras has ever allowed himself to express in words, and Grantaire cannot help himself but to hold the other man more tightly.

*

The next day, they receive word that General Lamarque is dead, and the time has come. The sand in the hourglass is petering out. Tomorrow, Les Amis will live or die for France. Grantaire will live or die for Enjolras.

*

There is one day left. Grantaire says this to Enjolras, mouths it against his spine, and Enjolras mumbles in his sleep. Satisfied and drunk on last night’s wine and Enjolras’ tongue, Grantaire nudges his mouth closer still to Enjolras’ skin until he can feel the nodules of his spine against his lips. _I love you_ , he says, and Enjolras does not scold him for it.

The sky is red.

*

Éponine is dead. Her blood stains the earth and she lies there, cold and lifeless, as Marius weeps. He knows, thinks Grantaire, as he shivers nearby. He knows that she loved him. Grantaire wonders if this is why Marius returned. Perhaps he has always known. Perhaps he still does not. Perhaps it played no part at all. Grantaire does not know, and he will not ask, because Éponine is gone, and her body barely remains.

She is dead. If she can be killed so easily, if the Revolution has so easily dulled her spark of life, then there is no hope for the rest of them.

“We are finished,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire expects him to be angry, furious that Grantaire has given up, but instead he merely looks sad. He does not look afraid. Grantaire envies him for it.

“Take her inside,” he says. Grantaire feels tears welling in his eyes, but he will not shed them.

“She loved him, you know,” he says, and Enjolras’ lips thin in a hard line.

“I know.” He reaches out suddenly, as though to take Grantaire’s hand and offer comfort, but the thought is ridiculous. His hand falls limp by his side.

Grantaire swallows his words and walks towards where Marius sits, cradling Éponine. She still wears his coat.

*

They are to die. There are soldiers below with guns and bloodlust and a need to quash any hope for change. Grantaire trembles. He is to die as he had feared; without reason. They are all to die. 

He wonders if anyone else will ever turn the pages of a book the way that Prouvaire did, with a pen in one hand and a delighted eagerness on his mind. Will another man ever habitually mispronounce ‘égalité’ as Feuilly did when intoxicated? When they die, all will be lost. All that they were, all that they would have been; it will have been for nothing. It will come to nothing. No-one will remember them. They will linger in no-one's consciousness, but will be extinguished like candles in the cold, and the lingering candlesmoke will become part of the air.

When all is done, there will be nothing left but bone and marrow.

They have seconds left.

Enjolras looks at him and takes his trembling hand in his own. It does not still. There is sadness in his eyes, and Grantaire squeezes back. Perhaps Enjolras could have grown to love him. Perhaps he never would. Enjolras closes his eyes and Grantaire can feel his pulse through his skin.

“I could have - ” begins Enjolras, and then there is a roaring in Grantaire’s ears and everything is red and black.

*

He is not dead. He lives yet. Enjolras lies next to him, and his eyes are closed. Grantaire shakes him.

“They have not won!” he says, and Enjolras is silent. Grantaire shakes him again. “It is not over!”

Enjolras makes neither sound nor movement. All is lost. Grantaire is lost. He is spared, but he is not spared. Without Enjolras, there is nothing. There is no cause. There is no hope, and no future. There is no Grantaire.

He leans over, presses his forehead to Enjolras’, and weeps full sore. He knows that should the soldiers hear him he will die, but he is unworried. Death is not so lonely now.

“You could have _what_ ,” says Grantaire. “What would you have said? Tell me!”

He closes his eyes. What would he have spoken of?

“Perhaps you could have won. That must be it, my love, because you could. You should have. But not now.”

 _My love_. He says it now freely, as he never could when Enjolras might have heard but refused to listen. He has never kissed Enjolras. He has never been allowed, despite all the times they have lain together, because Enjolras does not love him, did not love him, loved him too much to let him know. Grantaire kisses him now, because he is alive and Enjolras is not. He tastes like metal and blood. Would he have tasted so in life?

Grantaire gathers Enjolras’ body into his arms. His skin is broken, and Grantaire thinks of all the times he has traced it with his tongue, his teeth, his fingers. He has written sonnets on Enjolras’ skin, composed scores and essays.

He could have _what_?

Then, there are footsteps on the stairs. Enjolras’ lips are not yet cold, and Grantaire forces himself to pull away as the soldier enters the room. The soldier looks at him, alive and bent over Enjolras, holding his body in his arms, and he lowers his gun.

“Son, please,” says the soldier, extending a hand to Grantaire, presumably to help him stand. Grantaire doesn’t think he could stand even with the assistance. He is dripping in blood; Enjolras’ blood stains the white cuffs of his shirt crimson and the deaths of his friends weigh heavy in the furrows of his brow, he’s sure. No, he may as well lie here. Let death take him. Let the worms burrow beneath his flesh and consume him from the inside. Let this soldier mourn the death of a man he’s already killed.

The soldier sighs and drops to his haunches, so that if Grantaire were to look up, he would be eye-level with the enemy.

“It is over,” the soldier tells him, and Grantaire looks up at that. His heart thuds dully. It is over. Blood has been spilt like wine, tears shed like rain from the clouds on the darkest horizons, and it is over. “I would hate to see another young life wasted.”

He could take the soldier’s hand. He could allow the soldier to help him to his feet, unsteady and swaying, and lead him away. He would almost certainly be arrested, of course, but he would live. He would live where so many have not.

He casts his eyes down again. Enjolras lies mere yards away, quiet in death as he never was in life, still and paling, red jacket red lips red _everywhere_ , and isn’t that suiting that he should die as he lived?

He gets to his feet. He too will die as he lived; for Enjolras.

“He could have loved me,” he cries, and, movements quickened by the rush and thud of blood in his ears, he rushes towards the guard, who fumbles to pick up his gun again and aim it at Grantaire. “He could have - ”


End file.
